a background of pasty.

It's Saturday evening, and I'm inspecting the damage to my legs. I count three injuries, all of the variety of capillaries broken beneath the skin, i.e. bruises. There's a teensy one just below the right knee, while the other two are right on the shins, one on each leg. The one on the right leg is noticeably swollen. I'm poking that one to test for tenderness. I don't know it yet, but I will develop a scratched-up hand and a sore bottom the very next evening. This is the first weekend we got the wheely shoes, and our bodies show it.

I remember when my legs were quite the colorful things, with varying hues of red, blue, green, and brown all over a background of pasty. This was all in my high school sports days, back when I did something more than sit at a computer all day long. My knees were always particularly vivid in volleyball season, where my kneepads could only do so much to cushion the blow of a girl my size crashing to hardwood floors.

As I admire the colors of my new bruises, Josh sees and makes sympathetic noises. He kisses me and tells me that he is sorry that his poor, sweet baby is damaged. I smile broadly and tell him that I am nothing but proud of these little blue and swollen patches among the pale. I am proud of any badge on my body, be it a bruise or a scratch or even a hickey, that I got from living. Monday morning, I will go to work and whenever someone asks me about my weekend, I will silently and wide-eyed show them the new cut on my hand before I launch into talking about my new wheely shoes, and how they're so cool, and I just had the most fun ever.